by Annie Murray
‘What?’ She didn’t know what to say. ‘What d’you mean?’ Had she? Was it her fault? She was filled with terror suddenly. All this disgust everyone felt for her. Ken’s parents had turned him against her and he was going to leave her all alone so that he could carry on with his nice life.
‘They’re Christians, aren’t they, your mom and dad? I thought they wanted people to get married and do the right thing, not have you just run off?’ Her voice rose. ‘Ken, you can’t just abandon me! What’m I going to do? This . . .’ She laid a hand on her belly. ‘This is your baby as well as mine. Don’t leave me – please!’
Ken was weeping now as well. ‘It’s not that I don’t love you, Evie.’ He came close as if to put his arms round her, then lowered them, drew away again. ‘I do, and I feel so bad about what’s happened. But can’t you see it’s the wrong time? What sort of life would we have?’
‘I don’t know. We’d have to work and . . .’ She stared at him in horror. He didn’t love her at all. If he did, he’d never go and leave her. ‘We’d have to do what other people do – work and bring up our baby, and—’
‘I’m sorry.’ He shook his head, final and quick now as if this was something he just had to get finished. ‘I can’t Evie. Maybe it’s selfish of me, but it’d mean giving up my whole future – the future I want for myself. Look.’ He reached into his jacket pocket. ‘They don’t want you to be without help with, you know – when you have the baby . . . Or not . . .’ He was completely out of his depth. ‘They’ve given me this – for you.’ He held out a white rectangle towards her.
Evie kept her hands by her side. She was so stunned, so hurt and afraid, she could not think what to say.
‘Take it, Evie.’ He sounded angry now. ‘For God’s sake. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry . . .’ He kept crying, pushing the envelope at her, not looking at her.
‘What is it?’ she whispered.
Ken came close, looking round to see if anyone was listening, and she despised him for this. Voice very low, he said, ‘It’s fifty pounds. To help see you right.’
‘How will that “see me right”?’ she said, dazed. ‘It’s a baby, Ken.’
‘Look, just bloody take it. Please.’ He grabbed her hand and pushed the envelope into it. He had done it and she could see he hated himself but that now he was desperate to get away. For it to be over so that he could live his life: the life he really wanted.
Silent, she tucked the envelope in her pocket. Fifty pounds – a few weeks’ wages – for him to be rid of her.
‘Evie . . .’ He stood before her, agonized, longing to be off. ‘I really am so, so sorry.’
‘So am I,’ she said. She was not crying now. She felt empty as a husk. But as he moved away, thin and scurrying, she yelled after him, ‘Keep it in your sodding pants next time, Kenny boy!’
Slowly, in the dusk, she walked home, dazed and empty. The only thing clear in her mind was that if the envelope tucked under her hand in her coat pocket contained the money Ken had claimed it did, on no account must Mom have any idea of it. Beyond that she had no thought. Tomorrow felt years away at that moment. There was no tomorrow, only the present.
She stepped into the house. The family were sitting round, the three of them. No Rita today – on Sundays she was with Conn’s family.
She had only set foot in the door when Mom looked up, and through a mouthful of stew, said, ‘So, is ’e marrying yow?’
Her father’s dark eyes turned towards her and, lastly, Shirley’s.
Evie stood in her coat. Her hand, in her pocket, brushed the envelope. She raised her chin. ‘No.’
‘You what?’ Mom stopped chewing. She got to her feet, slowly, like a cow getting up in a meadow. She started, across the table, low, getting louder.
‘So ’e’s leaving yow to carry ’is bastard child? Too bleeding good for the likes of us, is ’e?’
For one crazed moment, Evie thought her mother was taking her side. But no.
‘Well!’ Mom banged a fist on the table. ‘Yow needn’t think yower gunna stop round ’ere and feed off the rest of us. Miss High and Mighty . . . yower no more than a dirty little ho!’
‘Irene, for God’s sake,’ Dad said, trying to intervene. Shirley’s mouth was hanging half open, her eyes wide.
‘No, Ray, leave this to me. We cor ’ave ’er bastard darkening our doors. I’ve ’ad enough with this ’un. ’Er’s given me nobbut trouble ever since ’er were born. Yow can pack yower bag and get out of ’ere, Eve Sutton, if yow ay gunna change yower name. Go on, go! You ain’t got no family ’ere anymore. And don’t you gainsay me, Ray.’ She held up her clenched fist. ‘Don’t you say a bloody word. It was you sired this little bitch in the first place. I never wanted ’er and for once, you can cowing well do as I say.’
Twenty-Three
And she was alone in the dark street, in her hand an old cloth bag they usually used for carrying meat and veg back from the shops into which she had crammed a few of her belongings while Mom ranted.
Her voice still rang in Evie’s ears, all the things she had called her, as if a lifetime of her loathing had bubbled over like a vile cauldron. And Dad had just sat there, saying, ‘Eh, wench . . .’ and nothing more effective. Even Shirley had come out of her shell to look shocked. ‘Mom . . . you’re not really going to turn ’er out, are yer?’ They were paralysed in the face of Mom’s rage, all her own hurts, her deafening hatred being hurled at Evie, propelling her out of the door.
‘Mom,’ she had tried to beg. ‘Don’t! Where’m I gunna go? It’s dark out there – and it’s freezing. I’ll go back and see Ken, make him change his mind . . .’
But she knew it was hopeless. Her mother was a tidal wave of retribution. And she was relishing her hatred. Her face, lipstick lips and plump, pitted cheeks, wore a look of exultation as she ordered her youngest daughter-who-should-have-been-a-boy out of the house and her life. For a moment Evie thought Shirley might stick up for her more, come with her even. But no. She sat tight, letting Evie disappear into the night.
Stepping out, again she had a feeling that none of this was real. But once she had walked to the end of Inkerman Street and turned the corner, the realness of it came to her with a crushing force which halted her on the pavement. She was having a baby, not married, a disgrace. And Ken, who she had thought loved her, really loved her . . . Her chest ached. A man walking past eyed her, as if he was about to speak, and a blush spread over her. He thinks I’m . . . one of those . . . A woman standing on a street corner. A shameful, dirty woman – wasn’t that what she was? She heard Ken’s voice, You led me on. Maybe she had. She was a dirty, bad person. Hurriedly she moved on.
The cold of the night seeped into her as she walked, with no destination in mind. I can’t stay out in this, she thought. And the weight of everything seemed to fall on her: Ken’s back walking away, her father and sister turning their eyes away, the streets around her and the huge, uncaring sky. She had always felt alone, except for during those months with Ken, when she thought he loved her enough to do anything to join his life with hers. Now, the aloneness was complete, echoing round her like a sentence.
For a second she thought about going to Gary. But that house, all those boys, and Mr Knight with his wandering hands . . . It was more depressing than being out here. Auntie Vi and Uncle Bill were the only other family. Scotland. She hardly knew where it was. And Auntie Vi didn’t want her. They had brought enough trouble to Vi’s door in the past. But there was no one else.
Head down, she wandered along Reservoir Road, passing blokes coming and going from the pubs. Bursts of noise came to her as pub doors opened, adding a waft of ale and fags to the already smoky air. Her feet were frozen. Almost colliding with someone, she looked up for a moment as the bloke muttered, ‘Watch it.’
Seeing the street ahead, she was struck by a sudden inspiration. This route, along Reservoir Road, was the way she had gone all those years ago when she had been to Mrs Bracebridge’s house, before Mom was so rude a
nd nasty to her. Her heart sped up. Mrs Bracebridge had liked her, had been kind. She was a good Christian lady. She had even offered to take her in, back then, to give her a home. Maybe now she could go to her for help – at least for somewhere to shelter tonight. Tonight was quite enough to think about for now.
She hurried again, along the street towards the neat terraces of Clarendon Road.
In the darkness she was unsure which house it was after all this time. Twenty-two? Twenty-four? There was something about this one that looked right, except that it had a deserted feel to it, the front windows dark and swathed with nets.
Legs trembling, she mounted the step, felt for a knocker, banged it twice. It did seem like the right place. She stepped back and waited.
Let me in, please just let me in, she whispered to the forbidding wood of the door. Oh, to be inside. To belong inside somewhere and for always. Her heart ached, an actual pain in her chest.
A sound came from inside, the tiny rattle of a lock. It seemed to take an eternity before the door opened on a chain. She saw a pale face through the crack and could just make out that the woman’s hair was caught up in a net.
‘Who is it?’ She sounded frightened.
‘Is that you, Mrs Bracebridge?’ She moved closer.
‘Yes.’ If anything, the quavering voice sounded even more worried.
‘It’s . . .’ She felt the ache in her chest grow and tears rising but she swallowed them back. ‘I don’t know if you remember me. My name’s Eve Sutton. I used to come to the church, like – to Sunday school.’
‘Oh? Yes,’ Mrs Bracebridge said, her voice firmer now. ‘Eve. Yes.’
Evie heard the chain being taken off the door and it swung open. Mrs Bracebridge was dressed in a long, dark-coloured garment, her face a thin wedge of white above it.
‘Sorry, Eve, only you have to be careful. I didn’t know you at first. You’ve grown up, a good deal.’ Her voice was warmer now, though cautious. ‘What did you want, dear?’
‘Mrs Bracebridge, I . . .’ Her voice started to shake. ‘I’m in trouble. I’m sorry . . . Can you help me?’
Mary Bracebridge stood for a few seconds, as if calculating what she should do. Jesus always welcomed strangers. She had told Evie that, more than once. The outcast, the foreigner, the people no one else wanted.
She stood back and ushered Evie inside.
‘I’ve got money,’ Evie told her, sitting in the back room, a cup of sweet, comforting Ovaltine in her hands. ‘I don’t want to make trouble. And I’ve got a job. Just over at the Ballroom.’ It was very near to here. She looked down at herself. ‘For the moment, anyway.’
Mrs Bracebridge had made herself a little cup of Ovaltine as well, and was drinking it like a person recovering from shock. Which, Evie realized, she might well have been. Now they were in the lit back room, she could see that Mrs Bracebridge was wearing a navy and purple weave dressing gown and ancient sheepskin slippers, her hair in curlers under the net. Her face looked much the same, though the flesh sagged a little on her thin neck.
‘It’s nice to see you again, dear,’ she said carefully. ‘I was sorry about what happened – you know, when you were little. It was kindly meant.’
‘Oh, I know,’ Evie assured her. ‘My mom’s . . .’ She looked down, unable to find quite the right words, or at least words that she might say to Mary Bracebridge without scorching her ears off.
In the silence, she heard someone upstairs give a cough.
‘And you say you’re coming up to eight months?’ the woman asked, with a kind of bracing courage for discussing difficult things. ‘And the father is . . . reluctant to take on his responsibilities?’
Evie nodded. Her face had already turned varying shades of puce telling Mrs Bracebridge about this. She could see her internal struggle. Judge not, that ye be not judged. ‘There’s no one, Mrs Bracebridge,’ she admitted. ‘Otherwise, I swear, I wouldn’t have brought my troubles to you. Ken . . . that’s the father. He – at least his mother and father – paid me off.’ She couldn’t keep the acid out of her voice. ‘I dain’t tell my mother or she’d’ve had the money off me. But I’ve still got nowhere to go.’
Mrs Bracebridge took her cup, with twining ivy leaves round it, to her lips and sipped. She returned it to the saucer with a sigh and looked into Evie’s face.
‘You’re still lovely, dear, to look at.’ She hesitated. ‘You do know I really wanted to adopt you, Eve? I would have brought you up as my own. Herbert and I . . . we couldn’t . . . We had a home, an empty home, and a lot of love and care to spare.’
For the first time, Evie felt her throat tighten and her eyes fill with tears.
‘I know,’ she said. ‘I wish—’
‘But now,’ Mrs Bracebridge said, cutting her off, ‘things are very different. My Herbert is most unwell. He already suffered with his nerves and a few months ago he had a turn – a stroke they call it.’ She sat a little straighter, as if to gain strength in discussing it. ‘He’s paralysed down one side. He couldn’t speak for a while, though now he can – a little. I am looking after him and . . .’ She looked across at Evie sorrowfully. ‘We can’t have anything else disturbing him. The slightest thing, and he is . . .’ She shook her head. ‘He’s just not a well man.’
‘I’m sorry,’ Evie said. She had never met Mr Bracebridge. But she was sorry. Mrs Bracebridge was so transparently good and she did not seem to have much of a life.
‘You can stop here tonight, dear, of course, so long as you’re quiet. I’m not going to turn you out. But I’d prefer that Herbert does not know.’ She got up and took Evie’s cup along with her own. ‘I can find a few bits of bedding for you. And in the morning, we’ll see what else can be done.’
When she had found some blankets and a pillow and instructed Evie to settle on the soft hearthrug, she turned at the door and stood looking in at her.
‘Thank you, Mrs Bracebridge,’ Evie said. ‘You’re very kind.’
‘Goodnight, dear,’ she said softly, closing the door, and in her voice, Evie could hear all the inflections of love and regret.
Twenty-Four
January 1961
They stood side by side, Mrs Bracebridge’s brown lace-ups beside Evie’s old black shoes, in this terrifying house, with its enormous tiled hall and imposing staircase.
‘You’ll need to leave now,’ the young nun said. She was very polite to Mary Bracebridge. ‘I can show her where to go.’
Even Mrs Bracebridge seemed overawed by the sheer expanse of the building after her own little terrace. She was wearing a powder-blue macintosh and a see-through plastic hat which tied under her chin as it was drizzling outside. She turned to Evie, her eyes full of sadness, as if she felt guilty for leaving her.
‘Well, dear,’ she said gently. ‘I must go. I’m sure you’ll be all right.’ She sounded uncertain. In a whisper, as the nun had started to walk slowly up the stairs, she added, ‘The sisters are very good.’
Don’t leave me, please don’t! Evie wanted to beg. If only Ken were here, to put his arms round her and help her, to look into her eyes and tell her everything was going to be all right. Recollection came to her like a stab. Ken was never going to be there. Ken did not want any part of all that was facing her. She swallowed and reached for a breath, feeling the weight of her distended belly. She was queasy with dread.
‘Thank you, Mrs Bracebridge,’ she whispered, dry-eyed. ‘Thanks ever so much for helping me.’
Mrs Bracebridge looked for a moment as if she might embrace her, but she stepped back, her eyes still meeting Evie’s for a lingering moment. She didn’t say, come and see me afterwards, let me know . . . Nothing like that. After a few seconds she gave a nod and said, ‘Goodbye, dear, God bless you.’ She turned and Evie heard her footsteps and the heavy door closing behind her.
She was alone, in this place Mrs Bracebridge had organized through her church, this forbidding house with a name Evie had no idea how to pronounce. All she knew was that it was the mother
and baby home in Moseley and that this was where she would now have to stay until after the baby was born. It felt like being sent to prison.
‘This is where you’ll sleep.’
The nun pushed a door open high up in the attic of the house. Evie was panting from climbing all the stairs to what had obviously once been the servants’ quarters, and she could smell polish and disinfectant and something cooking – meaty but not especially appetizing. The nun’s face was plain and fleshy under her veil, her manner clipped and definitely not friendly.
Evie saw a long room with a window at one end letting in sad grey light. It contained six black iron bedsteads, three along each side, each covered by a washed-out green candlewick bedspread and with a wooden chair beside it. Hers was the middle one on the left. Nervously she looked round the room. She had to share with all these strangers – what would they be like? It was a frightening thought.
‘The others are downstairs at present,’ the nun said. ‘In fact, it’s nearly dinnertime. I’ll take you back down once you’ve left your things.’ This was more of an order than a suggestion.
Leaving her bag was the work of a moment. She put it on the bed and followed the nun’s – she was sure – disapproving back down the stairs.
Those first few days were a sea of faces, of meeting her room mates, of questions, of numbness. The house contained a dozen girls, some heavy with child and others who had already given birth and were there to feed their infants for a while before they were delivered for adoption. These girls looked deflated, their bodies adapting back to the separation. Some of them were in a terrible state, weeping on and off all day as their full, sore breasts did their work but reminded them constantly that this giving of themselves would soon no longer be needed or possible. Their babies would be torn away from them. One of them, a dark-haired girl called Dora, seemed as if turned to stone.
